


Different

by FrozenHispanic



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Flashbacks, Implied Sociopathy, Other, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Canon, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21776125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenHispanic/pseuds/FrozenHispanic
Summary: Different.It's something Roger has been called by countless people in his life. As he recollects the moments in time he's heard the word been uttered, he begins to wonder what they actually meant by it.
Kudos: 12





	Different

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. I'm alive!  
> It's been like two years since I've last posted, so here is something I created in like the span of a couple hours.  
> I read Lord of the Flies for English class this semester and got Way too into it. Also, I think this fandom needs more focus on my boy Roggie here. We stan a child sociopath tho  
> I apologize in advance for how dark this story is going to get.
> 
> \- B <3

Roger sat perched on the edge of the metal bench, glaring up at the boys in gym shorts who all stared back. The only two players left to pick were himself and the overweight kid next to him on the bleachers. The team captain whose turn it was to pick glanced between the two of them uncertainly, a hand resting idly on his hip. Roger was not at all surprised that he had not been chosen yet; everyone in his year 3 class wanted nothing to do with him. He didn't care, though. He found that solitude fit best for him, anyway. 

A boy next to the captain fidgeted. "What about Roger?"

The captain eyed Roger once more, and Roger made no move to encourage his choice. He considered it silently for a few seconds before replying, "No. He's too different. Hugo, come here." 

The fat boy waddled toward his team, obviously pleased with himself. Roger stood up and made his way to the other side, ignoring the exasperated sigh of annoyance from his new team captain. He tried not to think about what that boy had said. He knew, in a way, that it was the truth. He never seemed to enjoy doing the same things that everyone else did. He didn't like to run or yell. He didn't want to sit with other people when he ate his lunch. He didn't understand why people made such a fuss about who was friends with whom. He just wanted to be alone, unbothered so he could do any schoolwork he needed to do. 

The football sailed towards him and collided with his head. Whoops and cheers echoed across the field as he reeled back. Someone from the opposite team exclaimed, "See why we didn't want him? Idiot!" 

Oh, and then there was that. The other children didn't want to talk to him, either. They gladly shut him out of their circles at the lunch tables, refused to lend him their pencils in class, even stepped on his toes in the hallway. But it never hurt Roger. He really didn't care. At the very most, his low status was an inconvenience. He just found himself often wondering why different was such a wrong thing to be. 

Once year 7 came around, Roger's mother insisted he partake in an extracurricular at his new school so he would have a better chance to socialize. The last thing he wanted to do was be around other students for longer than he already had to, but he also didn't favour the arguments that would ensue with his mum over his lack of friends. It wasn't easy to find an activity suitable for himself. Sports were an obvious no - his lanky, unstable legs along with his piss poor hand-eye coordination were unforgiving on the field. Debate club, no. Art club? God, no. The only thing left for him to try was choir. Roger figured he could live with that. He could sing well enough, plus it allowed him to stand amongst a large group of boys and try his damnedest to blend right in. The group met on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On the third week of school, he meandered over to the chapel to find out about joining. 

Father Atkinson greeted Roger with a warm smile. "Hello there, young man. Are you here about the choir?" 

Roger nodded listlessly. Father Atkinson grinned wider and gestured toward the other end of the chapel, calling out, "Jack? Someone's here to see you." 

A small crowd of boys dressed in black cloaks stood huddled near the front row of pews. All of them dawned caps atop their heads, each sporting one silver star. At once, they all turned to look at him. Roger halted, suddenly uneasy under the choristers' cold scrutiny. From the circle emerged a tall, severe-looking boy with rusty orange curls and an icy blue gaze. The star on his cap was gold, and immediately Roger understood that he must be Jack. The redhead waved his hands dismissively, hushing the murmurs of the boys behind him. He stepped closer until they were an arm's length apart. 

His eyes wandered shamelessly along Roger's features. "Name?"

"Uh... Roger." 

"Roger," Jack repeated, narrowing his eyes. His head tilted slightly. "Can you sing?"

"Yes," Roger replied quietly, although the word came out more as a question than an answer. 

Jack seemed horribly unconvinced. He crossed his arms over his chest. "What are your grades like?"

Roger frowned. "They're good. Is that supposed to matter?"

The chorister sauntered across the aisle, purposefully swishing his cloak over his shoulder as he turned. "Of course. My choir can only have the best students. And the best singers. Roger, I want to hear you sing." 

Roger stood awkwardly as the rest of the boys stared expectantly at him. He despised being stared at. He took a glance in the direction of Father Atkinson, who nodded encouragingly. Mustering his smoothest-sounding voice, he hummed the first few chords to 'Amazing Grace'. When he was finished, Jack stepped forward and gesticulated. "Well, can you show up to meetings after classes?"

"Yes."

"Well, you'd definitely sing tenor. Our tenors always stand in the very back row - are you alright with standing in the back?"

This eased Roger's nerves quite a bit. His jaw loosened as he responded, "Yes. I'd actually prefer that, to be quite honest."

Jack came close to him again, eyes locking with his. Roger had always thought of himself as tall for his age, but Jack loomed over him. The ginger's lips curled into an amused grin. "Everyone always wants to sing in the front. You're different, eh?"

Roger didn't answer to that remark. Long after he had been given his new choir uniform and sent home for the day, he scowled at the thought of those words. Did he really stand out that much? He felt like he spent all his energy on trying not to. Perhaps this choir would be good for him, then. It'd give him something else to focus on besides his growing distaste for the people around him and the anger it caused when he saw that they were capable of feeling good. Maybe one day... he'd make friends. Maybe one day, he'd feel good, too.

It had been nearly a year since Roger had become a chorister, and summer break was approaching quickly. Life at school had undoubtedly gotten easier now that he was under the wing of the choir. He now had a rightful place within a group at his school. It turned out to not be all that bad to eat lunch at a table full of people. Jack, for whatever reason, had taken a liking to him. The two of them spent more time around each other, and Roger found himself being less avoided by the rest of the students while they were together. He tolerated Jack well enough; he respected his leadership and admired the way he asserted himself everywhere he went. Deep down, he aspired to be as loud and powerful as Jack Merridew one day. He would love for people to open their ears to him as easily as they do in the presence of Jack. He really, really wanted people to listen to him.

Roger didn't mind singing at all. Any lingering shyness he felt from being observed by an audience had vanquished, and now he could comfortably stand in a chapel and perform. He had even met a boy named Simon - a tenor who, like him, was more content with his position in the back row. It was comforting to know he wasn't the only one who preferred not to be in the spotlight. He was finally feeling satisfied with his status at school. Not quite happy, but satisfied. He also appreciated having a reason to stay in school longer on certain days of the week. Anything that would keep him out of his home. 

Things at home were turning out to be particularly unfavourable. For the past few months, his mother had been seeing a man from her work. His name was Mark. He was loud, brash, and over-opinionated, Roger found. Always scolding him as if he were his real father or something. Roger dreaded the days where he'd come home to find Mark already there, holding his mum's attention just out of his grasp. He'd find any excuse to be alone in his room for the whole evening, whether it be homework or choir practice. He did not want to talk to Mark. 

One night, Roger was torn out of his sleep by the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. A slamming of a door, a man's voice barking obscenities. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet and turned his beside lamp on. His heart rate quickened at the realization that Mark had shown up at their house in the middle of the night unprecedented. His glance fixated on the door as he hurriedly tried to decide whether he wanted to confront the man or go back to bed and lie low under the covers.

Before he could make a decision, his bedroom door swung open forcefully. Mark stood hunched over in the frame, looking abnormally dishevelled. Roger had never seen him out of a meticulous office suit before, let alone with uncombed hair and a five o' clock shadow. Suddenly overwhelmed with indecision over what to say, he stumbled backward until he was sitting back in his bed. Without a word, Mark shut the door behind him quietly. A strange smile played at his lips. His eyes seemed glazed over. It was very unlikely for Mark to ever look this happy; Roger wondered if he had just come from a pub downtown. 

"What're you doing up at this hour?" the man asked, his speech drawn out in a ridiculous slur. 

Roger shrank into himself, voice catching in his throat. "Y-You woke me up."

"Did I?" Mark replied, then stepped closer until he was standing right at the edge of the bed. Roger didn't understand what Mark was doing in his bedroom like this. He didn't know how to tell him to leave without making him mad. Instead, he sat silently and shivered as Mark knelt before him so they were at eye level with each other. 

"Pretty thing," the man grumbled, swiping a thumb across the boy's cheekbone. "You're different from the rest of 'em. You're quieter. You're shy." 

There was that word again, Roger thought scornfully. Now Mark was going to use it, too? He jerked his face away from the offending hand, sighing, "I'm not."

All he received in return was a breathy chortle. Mark's fingers retreated momentarily, then placed themselves at the hem of Roger's shirt. They slithered up until Mark's whole hand was pressing encroachingly onto his chest. Roger was paralyzed, unable to fully process what was happening. He didn't comprehend why Mark was touching him like this. He wanted to shove him away, kick him out. Go back to sleep. But his body wouldn't move. He sat still, panic jolting his brain, as the hand continued to graze the different places on his skin. 

Mark's eyes were fixed intently on Roger's face. His rank breath assaulted the boy's nostrils. Roger stared back, finding himself incapable of turning his head away. His glance flicked down to see that Mark's free hand was dipped below the edge of the bed, forearm swaying at a rapid, steady pace. He blinked perplexedly, unable to tell what exactly the hand was doing down there. Rapacious fingers wedged their way between his lips and hooked within his mouth. He grimaced at the sour taste of Mark's skin. The man in front of him grunted softly, brow furrowing. The hand came out of his mouth. Then, it moved to a lower place under the waistband of Roger's pyjama bottoms. Roger recoiled slightly, unpleasant goosebumps arising on his skin at the unwanted touch. He made a small sound, a whimper of protest. Mark only hardened his grip.

"Feels good, don't it?" 

It didn't feel good at all. In fact, it felt rather gross. Roger wanted so badly to reach up and hit Mark in the face, but his limbs felt heavy. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that it would be over very soon. To his relief, it wasn't much longer until a long, low groan escaped Mark's lips and he finally stopped moving. Seemingly satisfied with himself, he promptly stood up, patted Roger on the head, and left the room. Roger lied back on his bed and heard the front door open, then slam shut. He turned his light out and tried to go back to sleep, but now all he could do was stare at the ceiling above him. His entire body ached with a strange feeling of shame. He shuddered pallidly as he predicted to himself that this wasn't the last time Mark was going to come in and do something like this. 

Roger sprawled lazily across the sand, shielded from the sun by a makeshift roof of leaves. In the shelter next to him lay two littluns snoring and gurgling in their sleep. He was just about ready to drift asleep himself when he heard the ramblings of other people just outside the shelter. It was Jack speaking to Ralph, the island's ascribed chief. As they trotted closer to where Roger was lounging, he began to hear more and more of their conversation.

"So that's it? Only me?" Jack inquired. 

"And Simon. Other than that? Yeah, I guess so. There's nobody else here I really like."

Roger sat up. Was Ralph talking about the people he preferred?

Jack's voice was low and hesitant. "What about Roger?"

Roger squinted at the mention of his name. He found himself holding his breath as he awaited Ralph's answer. Somehow, already, he knew what it would be.

"Well... he's weird. He's different. I don't know."

Jack sighed. "I suppose. He is a queer one, isn't he?"

Ralph's answer did not surprise Roger. But he had honestly expected that Jack would've defended him instead of agreeing. He bit the inside of his cheek angrily, wishing he understood what it meant to be normal. He really just wanted to be like everyone else. He wanted to be able to laugh, to cry, to play, to scream. But none of those things came easy to him. The only thing that felt natural was merely sitting in silence, observing the way everyone else would interact. He didn't want to have to pretend to be normal. He just wanted to be normal. Roger let his head hit the ground, bringing his knees to his chest as he lay on his side. He would just have to get used to being the queer one - being called different by Ralph. By Jack. By Mark. He'd be the different one forever when all he really wanted was to be the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Roger :((  
> I had to look up how the British education system works to figure out what grade they'd all be in so you're welcome for that by the way!  
> Noah Fence to the UK or anything but Man the school system is complicated


End file.
